


The Lighthouse

by KillerKueen



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Ambiguous Demon Rumple, F/M, Rumbelle Revelry 2016
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-31
Updated: 2016-10-31
Packaged: 2018-08-28 02:19:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,193
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8427208
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KillerKueen/pseuds/KillerKueen
Summary: Belle was looking for adventure. She finds it in the form of a new job as Storybrooke's lighthouse keeper, but something sinister is hiding in plain sight, and the town is keeping secrets. Written for the Rumbelle Revelry gift exchange.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [TheStraggletag](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheStraggletag/gifts).



> I tried to go full stream of consciousness but my inner Virginia Woolf wasn’t cooperating. It also turns out horror isn't really my genre, so here’s this instead. I’ve kept some things rather ambiguous, but if you have a burning question that you just need an answer to, hit me up.
> 
> Be warned that I’m playing fast and loose with facts here (I apologize to anyone who actually knows anything about lighthouses because the inaccuracies are blatant. Hey, we all suffer for art). Enjoy!

 

  
The lighthouse was old, but it wasn’t crumbling. At least, that’s what the ad in the newspaper had promised when Belle sent away for the job. _Lighthouse keeper needed,_ the print had read, _as soon as possible. Need not apply in person, travel expenses paid._

That’s what had hooked Belle, in the end. The chance to travel to a sleepy, coastal town was just the adventure she was looking for, or at least the start of one. That it got her away from her father’s failing flower shop was only a small bonus.

“Seems too good to be true,” Moe said, eyeing the ad distrustfully. He ran a tired hand down his face. “Why would they need someone to keep the lighthouse, anyway? Everything is electricity these days.”

“I’m just applying. They might not want someone like me,” Belle said reasonably. “But if I get the job, Papa, that is the first thing I will write you about.”

Moe sighed fondly, knowing there was no stopping her. Besides, she _was_ just applying.

 

* * *

 

The lighthouse isn’t crumbling.

This is what Leroy assures her of as he leads her up the path to her new home. She will be staying in the flat that takes up the ground level (Belle is relieved to see that the foundation is solid, and well away from the edge of the cliff it rests upon).The breeze coming off the water is cool, but pleasant in the autumn sunshine. With the open waves and the open skies so close, it’s all very picturesque, and she can’t wait to see the view from the shoreline, can’t wait to pull her camera out and walk along the beach.

“It’s a good thing you were able to come out here on such short notice, sister,” Leroy mutters into his chest, and Belle has to strain to hear him over the crashing waves. He’s turned away from her, walking at a slow enough pace for Belle to keep up.

“I’m happy to be here,” she says with such genuine warmth that Leroy turns back and raises an eyebrow.

“The last keeper lasted three weeks, the one before him only lasted two,” he warns her in his gruff voice.

“That means that I’ll be here at least a month then, doesn’t it?” She’ll be here longer though, she can feel it.

Leroy huffs and turns away, back up the path.

Belle smiles and turns back to look at the ocean. The second thing she will send back home to her papa will be this view.

 

* * *

 

It is the first night, and she goes into town for dinner. She steps into the local diner and orders a hamburger and iced tea.

The waitress, a tall woman maybe a few years younger than Belle with killer legs showcased in deadly heels, smiles as she takes the order. Proudly pinned to her collared shirt (four buttons undone) is the name tag _Ruby._

“New in town, are you?” she asks. “I’d assume you were just passing through, but no one ever comes to Storybrooke.”

“I’m the new lighthouse keeper,” Belle says as she hands back her menu. “Though I guess I don’t officially start until tomorrow.”

Something seems to crack in Ruby’s smile. “O-oh. Wow, really? That’s - wow.” At Belle’s look of bewilderment, she quickly amends, “I mean, I’m just surprised they found a replacement so quickly! The old one bailed, God, not even a week ago.”

“Just over a week, actually,” Belle offers. “At least that’s what the owner said—been gone about eight days now.”

“The owner?”

For a second, Belle is sure the waitress is going to faint from how quickly the blood drains from her face. But then—

“Oh, you mean Leroy?” She laughs suddenly, loud and jerky. “No, Leroy isn’t the owner of that old place. He works at the hospital. Janitor, handy-man, that sort of thing.”

“Who’s the owner then?” Belle asks, wondering what sort of person could possibly elicit such fear and panic. Belle envisions loan sharks and hunchbacks, men with pointy teeth and sharp, short tempers.

“Look at me, yapping away,” Ruby says, turning towards the kitchen. “I’ll get your order in, and you’ll have your burger in no time.”

Just as Belle is getting worried that her question will be ignored, Ruby adds with delicate cheerfulness, “The owner is a recluse. Don’t really know much about him, other than that he doesn’t show his face in town. His name is, uh, Mr. Gold.”

“Right.” Belle says to her back. “Of course.”

Her dinner comes soon after. Whenever she feels someone’s gaze, she looks up, smile at the ready (friendly if not all out warm), but no one returns it. In fact, she can’t manage to catch anyone’s eye once, despite the prickle on the back of her neck that suggests _someone_ is watching.

Belle has been New to Town before, so the careful staring is familiar in a way that’s almost comforting. She thinks that maybe what’s keeping anyone from approaching her is that Storybrooke is a much smaller town than the city her and her father moved to. The casual curiosity of a neighborhood block certainly doesn’t weigh as much as that of a close-quartered, exclusive community.

When she is finished eating, Belle quietly pays the bill, and returns to her lighthouse.

 

* * *

 

That night, she dreams of a ballroom lit by hanging candle light, of dancing lightly through a crowd of bodies, being held tightly to a chest of brocade and lace. Her dress is of silk and golden beads.

The man isn’t much taller than her, and his voice is a low burr that makes heat curl in her belly. He whispers into her ear comments at everyone else’s expense, mocking words about the guests and the decor. He doesn’t mock her, though.

In fact, he holds her like she is something precious; the fingers on one hand trail up the crevice of her spine while his other dips into the curve of her waist. She shivers and presses further into him (he smells of sea salt and brine, of wood smoke and _home_ , though no home Belle has ever known).

She tries to look up at his face, but whether it be shadow or light, his features are hidden. There is only his voice, low and like silk, in her ear.

She asks to keep dancing, so they do. Faster and faster, the room around her blurring, the guests melting together.

She shivers as she wakes, still feeling a hand against the small of her back, and the room spins, as if she stopped mid-twirl.

The harder she tries to remember anything more concrete than a glittering, golden room, the further away the memories become, as if she were chasing the ripples in a pool.

(When she does her laundry for the first time, days later, she finds holes in her socks.)

 

* * *

 

It rains on the second day. Belle opts to stay in her lighthouse and finish unpacking.

By the time her sweaters and skirts are hung up and her shoes are lined against the wall (practical tennis shoes and rain boots that reach up her calves to her knees), she decides it’s high time to explore what is now her home.

“You just need to stay in the apartment, and maybe clean the service room every once in awhile,” Leroy had told her once he’d opened the door and shown her around the apartment she would be inhabiting (one bedroom, one living room connected to the kitchen, plus a little bathroom with a shower stall. It is perfect).

Belle opens the door that leads to the upper floors of the lighthouse and walks up the winding staircase, delighted to be out of breath by the time she reaches the top. When Belle enters the service room, she takes a deep breath of the oil and rust that hang heavy in the air, and takes in the steady clicking of a clock. It’s the only sound—there are no windows, and the heavy brick blocks out the ocean waves.

Across from the staircase she just climbed is another set of stairs that lead to where the light is kept, the giant bulb that rotates in the night. The optic room, Leroy had called it. He had told her to make sure the light turned on thirty minutes before dusk, and turned off thirty minutes after dawn. It was set on an automatic time, and Belle just has to make sure it keeps working.

Without hesitation, Belle starts up the final staircase. When she is finally looking out into the ocean, she fancies she can see all the way to the Boston Harbor. Or maybe she could if the grey clouds weren’t so heavy and low. She doesn’t really mind, since she’s rather fond of storms. She’s rather excited to have such a front row view.

It wasn’t raining hard, though. Belle preferred thunderstorms, the sound of rain hitting glass windows, and lightning crackling across the sky (and how amazing it would be to witness it firsthand). The quiet _pitter patter_ against the glass was calming, but it wasn’t interesting enough to hold her attention for long.

Soon enough, she leaves the almost-storm to walk the long way down to her apartment. She curls up on her couch that smells like dust and chalk, wraps her mother’s fraying wool blanket around her shoulders and opens her favorite book in her lap. She can envision tall bookshelves lining all the walls, brimming with her novels, stacks of books everywhere once the shelves inevitably overflow.

Yes. She will be happy here.

 

* * *

 

She smells the rot on the ninth day.

Maybe it’s mold. Maybe it’s a fault in the insulation. The smell, like pooled blood and rancid fruit, is so potent and sickly it makes Belle gag despite how long she spends scrubbing at the tiles or washing away soap suds. Nothing she cleans makes the least bit of difference.

She can’t find the source, no matter how she scours behind cabinets, under her sink, or how many of the frayed rugs she turns over, looking for anything hidden under the floorboards. She pours chemicals down every drain she has and leaves her trash out at night, the bin stationed by the only door to the outside.

The smell still persists in bubbling up from _somewhere_. She can smell it even in the service room, which must be at least four stories above her apartment. She wonders if it might be in the walls (a part of her, unbidden, wonders if it could be the remains of the last few lighthouse keepers, but she violently shoves that thought from her mind).

She spends an entire day in the optic room because it’s the only place free from the horrible smell of rot. There, safely behind the glass as it looks out over the ocean, she can only smell sea salt and brine, a hint of smoke, and she sits and reads despite the chilly air or how the tip of her nose and fingers go numb.

Just before the giant light is set to turn on, the wind shifts, and Belle is sure she can hear a high-pitched giggle being carried over the cliff side. She pulls her sweater closer against her, decides she’s being silly. Whoever heard of the wind giggling?

 

* * *

 

The only word Belle can use to explain the town is, “picturesque.” It feels like it came straight from a movie set, especially with the leaves changing colors, and the lovely breeze that comes from the ocean.

Belle goes looking for Mr. Gold, but no one is willing to help her. When she calls Leroy, he hangs up, and Ruby flat out refuses to talk about him.

Out idea, she goes to the library, only to find the windows boarded up and the door locked.

 _A town without a library_ , she thinks. _Maybe it’s not so perfect here, after all_.

 

* * *

 

That night Belle dreams not of a ballroom and dancing, but of the ocean floor. The water tangles with her hair, and when she opens her mouth, she feels the water tangle with her lungs as well. The salt doesn’t burn as it makes its way down her throat. She can breathe as deeply as she wishes here.

She’s always wanted to be a mermaid, and she looks down to her legs, wondering if she will suddenly find glimmering fish scales, but no—there are her feet, sliding against the coarse sand.

Belle hears laughter, pure and high like a child’s, but when she turns to look toward the source, an arm snakes around her waist and presses her back into a familiar chest.

His burr is in her ear again: “I missed you.”

Smiling, Belle half turns to press a kiss to where his neck and jaw meet. She tastes the wood smoke on his skin, and is delighted that even on the ocean floor, fires burn.

His hand slides up the nape of her neck, tangles in her wild, wave-combed hair. His grip at her waist tightens even as he tilts her head back and she is so sure he’s about to bring his lips to hers, and she _wants_ it so desperately, to taste him fully—

Something above her _thumps_ loudly, waking Belle with a start. She blinks, frowning in the early dawn light. She blinks again, her rooms still looking a bit...distorted, as if she were still underwater.

Underwater? The air is misty and wet on her face, the top blankets cool with condensation. She smells sea air, and she remembers she had left the windows open trying to air that horrible smell out.

It isn’t until later that she remembers what it was that woke her in the first place, but when she inspects the service room, nothing has been touched, and certainly nothing has fallen.

 

* * *

 

The townspeople don’t look at her. Not directly in the eye, in any case, and not when she can see them. Belle can feel their stares, though, can feel the hairs on her neck stand on end. She’s always turning, looking for whomever is hiding in the shadows or looking out of shop windows (she is a firm believer in _staring back_ ) but she never catches anyone in the act. She thinks maybe they’re still nervous about her interest in Mr. Gold, but she’d stopped asking those questions weeks ago.

Whenever she goes into the diner, Ruby attempts a cool politeness, but it always melts in the face of Belle’s friendship; Belle really just wants to actually have a conversation with a living human being at least once every few days. It’s not a lot to ask for.

One day, Belle says something that makes Ruby laugh. It’s a clear sound that rings to the front, where her grandmother is ringing up someone for their meal.

“Ruby,” Granny snaps.

The proprietor couldn’t have killed Ruby’s smile faster than if she had thrown a bucket of cold water on her.

Ruby puts her head down, mutters something about getting Belle’s order in, and scurries to the back.

Granny is the one who brings out Belle’s burger. She sets it in front of her, says, “You best keep away from Ruby.”

Belle frowns, wondering where the hostility is coming from.

“Am I that much of an outsider?” Belle asks, perplexed and hurt. “What have I done, that I can’t be friends with Ruby?” Belle shakes her head. “She’s a grown woman by the way. She can decide for herself who she’s friends with.”

Granny raises an eyebrow but doesn’t back down. “Your friendship is not good for my granddaughter. It will end poorly for her in the long run.” Her blue eyes, already so serious and hard, flash just a twinge of guilt. “If you can’t stay away from Ruby, than I’ll have to ask you not to return to my diner.”

And like that, Belle is left alone to finish her lunch. She’s still perplexed and hurt.

She finishes quickly, not having much of an appetite anymore and not sure if she can bare to return after the confrontation. She makes it a block down main street before Ruby catches up to her. Her hug is tight and warm, and Belle feels some of her hurt fade.

“I’m so sorry, Belle,” she says. “But Granny’s right. I can’t do this.” The guilt and despair in Ruby’s eyes seems far too deep and sincere for an apology over something as low-stakes as friendship.

Belle wonders what else she is apologizing for.

 

* * *

 

She’s stopped counting the days by the time she buys candles in a fit of desperation.

Belle walks into the sad, fluorescent-lit supermarket and chooses the ones with the heaviest scents: pumpkin spice, apple cider, sweet vanilla and lavender.

The man behind the counter looks alarmed as she lays at least a dozen jars on the counter, but says nothing.

Finally, just as Belle is about to hand over her credit card, he says, softly, “Have you tried leaving the windows open? It might help.”

“I have,” Belle says. Sure, it works instantly to get rid of the smell, replacing it with the brisk sea air, but it leaves her mind feeling so muddled (like she’s underwater, walking the ocean floor).

The man shrugs (why would he know what she needs the candles for anyway?), swipes her card, and throws in a silver lighter, free of charge.

She lights as many candles as her small coffee table will hold, not caring which scent is which, or how they meld together.

Belle watches the wicks flicker for a time, then stands to make some tea. She picks up her book. She takes comfort in the odd pop and crackle, and is content that the smell is masked well enough that she can sleep, windows closed.

She blows the candles out before she climbs into bed. She watches the smoke curl upwards in the air and thinks of the ripple of seaweed underwater.

When she wakes the wax is shiny and liquid; still melted. She burns the tip of her finger when she touches the surface, the wax cooling opaque.

 

* * *

 

She isn’t sure if she’s dreaming. She can’t tell if the air smells sweet, or if it’s the single candle burning on her dresser. She walks to her full length mirror and sees what she’s wearing—a golden gown, beads and silk, and bodice tight against her chest. A dream, then.

She’s admiring how the folds in her skirt ripple when she feels an open mouthed kiss on her neck.

“You’ve been keeping me out, lamb,” he says into her hair.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to.”

She gasps as in the mirror, she sees sickly green, glittering hands glide up her stomach to cup her breasts.

“I’ve never seen your skin before,” Belle murmurs as she runs her fingers against his. She expects the texture to be coarse, but instead it is smooth like her own. His nails are black, and better suited to be called talons or claws as they come to a point.

Belle wonders why she isn’t afraid. Maybe it’s the kisses he presses along her jawline, or that he smells of the ocean tide and woodsmoke. It’s hard to fear the familiar.

He hides his face, even as his hands start to untie the laces at the front of her gown. As soon as they are loose enough, he slips a hand inside to better palm at her, and she gasps as he pricks a nipple with his claw.

“Have you seen much of me?” he asks, and his voice isn’t as deep as it was before, but it still makes her stomach burn to hear it.

“No, but I want to.”

He hums. Belle jumps in surprise when he takes the front of her dress and rips it in two and off her body, leaving her in a thin chemise.

But he’s there, at her back, pressing her fully into his body, the line of his hips and his cock hard against her.

“What else do you want, my dear?” he whispers, breath hot as he presses a searing kiss to the skin behind her ear.

“I want your name,” she whispers.

“You know my name,” he says, giggling in delight and surprise at her request, and the odd sound tickles something buried deep in her mind. She thinks of rot and cold wind, candles burning and flickering—

Belle wakes to the sharp snap of wood breaking. She jolts out of bed, expecting to see the frame in splinters, but nothing is disturbed. Her book is even still on her night stand, where she left it before falling asleep. That can’t keep her heart from thudding desperately in her chest, and she looks around, frantic, for _something_ out of place.

That’s when she sees the curtains on her window just slightly askew. She pulls the heavy fabric back and there, on the condensation left from the early morning sun, is a fading outline of a hand print, fingers coming to sharp points, as if they were talons or claws.

 

* * *

 

Belle pulls on her boots and runs all the way to the diner. The dawn light is just rising along the top of the buildings as she bursts through the door, uncaring if the patrons inside think she’s gone crazed. Maybe she has.

She has a feeling they would know.

She looks for Ruby, and finds her already staring at her, open-mouthed and eyes wide. The waitress walks over to her quickly.

“Take the corner booth, the one at the back. I’ll make you some tea.”

“Ruby—”

“Go sit, Belle,” Ruby says.

Belle sits. She wonders if Granny is lurking somewhere.

Soon, Ruby places a steaming cup of earl grey on the table and slides into the booth so they’re sitting across from each other.

“The owner,” Belle says, urgently. “Of the lighthouse. Who is that man? Who Mr. Gold?”

“He’s not a man,” Ruby mutters, and Belle is taken aback by the tone. It’s almost casual, almost petulant, like a child who won’t admit being found out in a lie. She was expecting surprise or fear, but Ruby just looks tired. “He’s a spectre, of some sort, or a demon. We don’t really talk about it. I’m not sure any of us really knows for sure, anymore.”

“But you knew he was there, knew what he was going to do. What he _is_ doing.”

Ruby frowns. “And what is he doing?”

“I don’t know! I was hoping you could tell me!” she bursts out.

Ruby sighs, but doesn’t tell Belle to lower her voice.

“He keeps us safe, keeps us fed and warm,” Ruby says finally, her voice so small and sad. “This town, Belle. Surely you’ve noticed. It’s—well, it’s perfect.”

“How many people have gone missing? How many has he taken?”

“I don’t know. They don’t all blow into town with the enthusiasm to power a steamboat and introduce themselves.” She flashes Belle a guilty look. “Leroy usually acts as the only go-between.”

Belle slumps in her seat. She takes a sip of her tea.

“The pattern is always the same, though. What he does, and how he does it.”

“Pattern?”

“Yeah, like weird, vivid dreams, and that weird stink-bomb shit.”

“How do you—”

“Know? Belle, honey, the bags under your eyes could count as carry-ons, and you’ve nearly bought out the entire stock of Mr. Clarke’s candles.”

Belle shakes her head. “You know, it’s funny, really. It’s all so obvious in hindsight, it’s a wonder I didn’t notice sooner.” And it is. But she was so desperate for her own little adventure, to get out and away from her father, that she couldn’t see just where she ended up.

Suddenly Ruby lunges forward and grabs Belle’s wrists. “You can still leave, Belle,” she says, urgently. “You can still walk away from this.”

“What, and miss my chance of being a sacrifice to the town’s demon?”

Ruby squeezes her wrists tighter. “I’m sorry.”

Belle is quiet, thinking of the city she left: her father’s failing flower shop, the smell of mulch and old blooms.

“I don’t feel like a sacrifice,” Belle says honestly.

“What?”

“Why a lighthouse?” she asks.

“Something about the olden days,” Ruby says slowly. She lets go of Belle’s wrists, moves back into her seat. “Access and power, or some shit like that.”

Belle laughs despite herself.

“Usually he doesn’t, uh, need so many, you know?” she adds, uncertainty. “We can go months, even years, without finding a keeper.”

“What changed then?”

“He hasn’t been happy with the last few. There were signs, the ‘elders’ read them or something.” Ruby rolls her eyes.

Belle digests this.

“I need to go.” She stands abruptly, and doesn’t look back as Ruby shouts after her.

She doesn’t like the thought of more people disappearing, of being swallowed up by whatever beastly creature gives protection to the town.

If Belle were honest with herself, it’s the thought of _someone_ _else_ that leaves a bad taste in her mouth.

 

* * *

 

Belle doesn’t sleep that night. She thinks of fire and ash, of a lighthouse too far from the cliff side to crumble into the ocean. She clicks the head of her silver lighter, watches the flame flicker. She snaps the head closed. Again, _pop click snap_. Again.

The oil is still in the service room. How easy to topple one canister, to spill another down the stairs, to trail it, glistening all over her bedroom.

She has so many candles. It would be a shame if one were to fall, were to spark, were to ignite and burn.

 _Pop click snap_.

She doubts fire would solve anything, though.

Belle sets the lighter down.

She walks out her door and down the path. When she gets to the beach, she pulls her sweater over her head, toes off her boots.

He _wants_ her, whatever he is, spirit or demon. Instead of fear, this fact elicits a thrill down her spine, a matching want that pools in her belly.

She pulls her blouse from her shoulders, pushes her skirt down. She leaves a trail of clothing from the beach straight to the ocean waves. In just her underwear, she walks into the water.

She feels his hands encircle her calves when the waves are up to her thighs. She stops and waits and he slinks up her body. His hands slide underneath her panties, squeeze her bum. He’s warm against the cool breeze, and she shivers.

“I would have gotten you from my lighthouse,” he murmurs, kissing a line up her stomach. Despite having risen from the water, he’s dry to the touch, but his skin glistens in the moonlight all the same. “I could have carried you down myself.”

“This felt better.”

He giggles. “You’re such a romantic.” He straightens, his hands coming to cup her shoulders as he stands over her (but he doesn’t tower). She sees his face fully for the first time, sees his crooked nose and his sharp cheekbones. His deep, wide eyes with golden irises.

Oh, but he’s beautiful.

“What happens now?” Belle asks, fingertips exploring the skin of his face, the wide expanse of his chest. He’s bare as well, and it’s a delicious feeling to be pressed together, skin to skin.

“I suppose you come with me,” he says, but he asks it like a question. His fingers toy with the straps of her bra, but he makes no move to remove it. She's charmed that now is when he hesitates.

“For how long?”

“For forever, my dear.”

Belle hums. She runs her hands through his hair (wild and curly) and admires his face in the moonlight. She likes being able to see him. Did he hide himself out of fear he’d scare her away?

“No more lighthouse keepers?”

He smiles, his nose sharp, his eyes wide and golden. “Oh no, my dear. We can keep each other just fine.”

He studies her face in the moonlight, seems to find her answer in her face. He unhooks her bra and Belle happily lets it fall from her chest. She moans in appreciation as he kisses down her neck and across her breasts. He sucks a pert nipple into his mouth as his fingers again slip underneath her panties.

“Your name,” she gasps, as two of his fingers enter her. His hand rocks with the motion of the waves, and Belle wraps her legs around his hips, confident that she’ll be held safe in his arms.

He begins to walk back into the ocean. “Rumpelstiltskin,” he murmurs, letting her nipple slip from his mouth. “My name is Rumpelstiltskin.”

She moans in protest when he removes his hand, but it soon turns into one of appreciation when his cock is pressed into her sweet cunt instead. The water encircles her stomach now, and still he walks slowly back, descending in the water.

Belle’s fingers curl into the wild mane of his hair and force his head up. She crashes her lips to his and the frenzy of their tongues and lips belies how gently his hips are rocking into hers.

“ _Rumpelstiltskin,_ ” she breathes, as he fucks her. She gasps, his hands curling at her thighs, claws pricking her skin.

Everything is heat—the water against her skin, his body where it touches hers—and she smells his salt, his smoke, the home she will soon go to, and she feels him pressing harder, faster into her. Belle tightens her fingers, pulling against his scalp, as he lowers them both into the tide.

They have forever, now, and it’s that thought, the knowledge that this isn’t a dream she has to wake up from, that sends her over the crest. Her cry is swallowed by the ocean waves, by Rumpelstiltskin as he drinks the last breath of air from her lungs, and follows her over.

By morning, Belle’s footprints are swept away from the beach, and only her clothes scattered across the sand, or her lacy bra, bobbing in the tide, shows she was there at all.

 

* * *

 

It took Ruby four days to gather the courage to walk up the path to the lighthouse. She didn’t know what she’d find, but she had to try.

She hadn’t seen Belle since that early morning in the diner where Ruby had admitted that all she was was a pawn, or some unwilling sacrifice. In the end, it was the guilt, the devastated look on Belle’s face that Ruby just couldn’t live with.

A part of her hopes that Belle did just leave, consequences to the town be damned. She of all people didn't deserve whatever it was that creature did to those who stayed at the lighthouse.

She crested the hill, the lighthouse in sight. She took a deep breath and gathered her courage, only hesitating a moment before briskly walking to the door. There, taped to it, was an envelope.

Ruby hastily opened it, and read:

_Ruby,_

_It turns out my father was right; there’s no need for a lighthouse keeper anymore._

 


End file.
